2 Chapter 2
Mobert Wartaban was looking at the garden from his window; not like he was interested in the flowers or bits of it– he was thinking.
It was full moon tonight which illuminated the ground royale, but casted shadows to the pillars and nooks around; the lanterns were lit at each arc surrounding the pavilion.
He felt a grip on his shoulder, it jerked him back to the present.
"What are you thinking?" His wife asked, capturing his left elbow with her hand.
"Nothing." He smiled.
"You are not very good at lying."
He laughed, soft monotones. "Am I now?"
He stared at her, she was concerned alright, but this information was not meant for her ears to hear. He captured her face with both his hands and placed a kiss on her lips. "I have to go see my father."
She searched his face, giving him a threatening look.
"I know. I know." He said. "It's late but I can't wait."
"Clearly there's something bothering you and you don't want to share."
He knew these methods, he wouldn't fall for it. He plastered a smile on his face, "My beautiful lady," he enticed, and it was working. "I can assure you that when the time is right, I will apprise you."
He gave her a hug, which she returned. "Go to bed and don't wait up for me. I might stay the night at the east quarters, good?"
She nodded.
"Good." He freed himself from the hug and picked up his blade that laid on the footstool. He felt his wife's eyes on his back as he walked away and closed the doors behind him.
THE EASTERN QUARTERS indicated that the residents were already asleep, it was all quiet, no maids nor man servant walking around, just the guards who stood watch. But he knew his father; just because the quarters had a reticent feel didn't mean he had hit the bed.
The guards let him pass. He walked the passage way that led to the west gate, his baldrick where his sword laid worn over his shoulder over his brown Jerkin, was flapping around. He held on to it with one hand, the other starting to adjust his robe for comfort. It would be a long night.
•••
The King raised the papyrus to the air and read through it one more time. He stretched out his hand to Weyback who handed him the seal. Dipping the tail to the melted wax, he stamped it to the bottom of the paper; then dipped it again in a different saucer revealing blood—his blood. He pressed it close to the wax seal. When he was done, he picked up the inkstone and proceeded to sign on it.
He stood up, let the paper dry before rolling it up and then handing it over to the Kingmaker.
He collected it and wrapped it in a cloth before burying it in his shirt.
Sharma knew what was happening, the King just handed over his will, written in his blood with his own hands and with his signature and seal, it couldn't be double crossed.
"Kneel before your king, Sharma!" Her father ordered.
She did so immediately on both knees, her head bowed before him.
He placed a hand to her long dreaded hair, "Bless you my child."
Her heart raced because she knew what was happening. But she couldn't object, it was father's only option, an option that could cast the palace into turmoil and blood bath.
She saw the ancient dangling jewelry that spoke of kings' nobility that her father always wore underneath his tunics handed over to the king by the commander regent.
He took it with firm hands. How he had managed to stand on his feet through the night had surprised her. Must be the tonic that Hadu gave him, she thought.
He tried getting to his knees with much effort, waving away any help that was rendered to him. When his knees touched the floor, he exhaled heavily.
He picked up the Kings' Noble and slowly rested it over Sharma's head on her neck. The Kings' Noble: he placed his hand on the pendant. "From today, Sharma, unceremoniously, you have made history. You will be the first Queen Ruler of Metabul Aridal."
He placed his hands on her shoulder like he did before, but this time, he brought his forehead to hers, "Rule like your father." He said and tapped her face.
Sharma looked at the pendant around her neck, she held it in her hand knowing fully well the responsibilities that came with it. She raised her head to her father who was now smiling at her.
"Long live the Queen!" He said.
And with that, the commander regent, the King's adviser and the King maker dropped to their knees and bowed before them.
"Long live the Queen!" They chorused.
Later that night, Sharma was in her chambers, eyes closed, "Long live the Queen" kept on reiterating in her head; the night had taken a heavy turn on her.
She pulled off her robe, her caramel skin glowing from the reflection of the candle light. It was either she pulled herself together or crumble. She was a warrior, she refused to crumble.
She walked down slowly into the bath that was prepared for her; scented candles burning at the far end releasing the fragrance into the air. She looked around at her chambers, there was no one there—it was quiet. But she was aware of the guards that were at her door and the ones that patrolled.
She took a deep breath and went into the water, burying herself in it, a form of baptism; indicating a new age, a new Sharma and a new rendition alike. She had to grow up. She was no longer the twenty-two year old princess of Metabul: she was now a Queen. Well..
unceremoniously.
....
"THE KING IS DEAD!" A young boy wearing a noble tunic on a horse shouted in the market center.
"The king is dead?"
Murmurs began to arise from the market. People covering their goods with clothes. Women covering their head with scarves, the men removing their hats and caps.
"The king is dead!" The crier announced again, moving further and further away.
The atmosphere had turned miserable.
Verlock stood at the eastern tower, watching the gathering of the people from the lower and upper town, lighting their candles before the palace as the royal maidens sang the passing-on song for the King—the people joining in.
The King had died hours before his death was announced. Sharma was with him when he passed on, holding his hands and fighting back tears. What a burden she had to bear. She needed to be strong for the greater good. She couldn't show her weakness to her uncles.
Speaking of her uncles and cousins, they arrived the king's chambers minutes after Hadu had announced his death, some faking tears, the others not hesitating to show their excitement.
After an hour of relative visit, the embalmer was called to perform the ritual of passing on.
Now the King laid on his burial table , wrapped in white clothing, his sword on his chest; waiting to be placed in his sepulchre.
The tradition was this: after an embalming of a good King, the face was left uncovered for four more hours for the relatives to see; in that same process, the works of the day would stop. No trading and no traveling. Two nights would be used to mourn the King, after which, he would be placed in his sepulchre and taken to the underground to be buried with the rest of the ancestors. After two days, The name of the King was sculpted on stone.
It'd been hours already.
Sharma laid on her knees before her father's table, dressed in all white gown, a tiara made of lily over her head. Her dreaded hair which was usually in plaits was loosened, allowed to fall to her back. It was her duty as her father's direct blood to mourn him in this manner. She would not eat in two days, She had to be with him till he is placed in his tomb.
She wanted to mourn her father spiritedly, but the smirky face of her first and second uncles when they came into the chamber earlier on kept clouding her mind. She shook her head: futile attempts to dismiss the thoughts. She found herself fuming. Or not. Just two days? She grinned. She would make it a week!
Hot tears rolled down her face. She swiftly wiped them away with the back of her hands. No tears Sharma, no tears.
